My Liverpool Home (5 page)

Studs ruled back then. Continuing my routine, I put the right boot on first, then left, before the vital visit to the toilet, always the right-hand cubicle of the two at Anfield. That was the one I used for my first game, against Newcastle United, and since I scored that was me sorted trap-wise for my Liverpool career. If another player was in my cubicle, and the other stood empty, I’d still wait. Each player had his set time with the toilet and any new boy accidentally jumping the queue would be stopped by a shout of, ‘You can’t go now. It’s my turn.’

To the untrained eye, Liverpool’s dressing room might have appeared a jumble of players weaving in and out of each other, but method underpinned the seemingly chaotic movement. More routine was provided by the chairman, John Smith, who would visit the dressing room, going around each player, saying a few words. ‘How are you, Kenny?’ he’d ask. ‘Fine, chairman,’ I’d reply, and he’d move on.

‘How’s Headquarters, Terry?’ John Smith would ask Terry Mac. John was in the pub game so he knew Headquarters was the social club Terry frequented at Quarry Green. ‘Good, chairman,’ Terry would reply. ‘Fine.’ Move on. Liverpool’s chairman never got in the way. If John Smith had ever felt he was, he’d never have come down from the boardroom.

Kit donned, chairman sorted, I’d flick a ball up into my hands and head into the showers with Terry Mac for a further routine. Terry and I knocked the ball off the walls, warming up the Liverpool way – by passing. Every time, I’d say the same thing to Terry Mac – ‘Right, competition time.’ Terry and I played our little game, trying to hit the shower handle. Within a minute, Bob would call us back for a few final words. He was so calm, just walking around, worrying more about the 2.10 at Aintree than the 3 o’clock at Anfield.

‘All the best,’ Bob would say. He never mentioned anything especially pertinent to the game because he’d done all that the day before. Bugsy, Roy Evans, Tom Saunders and Joe Fagan would be wandering around, making sure we were fully motivated and making observations about the opposition. I’d be sitting in my place, always next to Al. He was No. 6, I was No. 7, and I’d have Jimmy Case or Sammy Lee on the other side at No. 8. Al would be absolutely silent, legs crossed, reading the programme, lost in reflection. That was the Hansen warm-up. Others stretched, got strapped up or rubbed down by Ronnie or Roy. Each player dealt with his nerves in different ways. Some chattered, some never said a word, but each person in that dressing room had supreme confidence in everybody around him. People talk about the secret to Liverpool’s success as if it were some great mystery but I never felt it was particularly complicated. It was just good players trusting implicitly in each other. Merely looking around the room filled me with belief. I knew we’d win. Graeme Souness would crunch into somebody or hit a wonder pass. Rushie would score, or Clem or Bruce would make a save.

I find it hard to believe any team could possibly have matched Liverpool’s comradeship. If I was taking a kicking, Souey would drop by to sort out the defender. ‘Leave it,’ I’d say. ‘I can sort it.’ Graeme was always there, a friend in need. Souey was the most elegant enforcer in football, a commanding midfielder with so many qualities that his price-tag nowadays would run to many millions. Jimmy Case and later Ronnie Whelan were fantastic footballers who could also put their foot in. We looked after each other. We knew the Kop would always be there for us, supporting us, singing our praises. Inside the dressing room, we couldn’t hear them. Being cut off made the journey towards the pitch so special, heading towards the noise and the bright lights outside.

Just before heading out, my routine demanded I make a journey around the room. ‘All the best,’ I’d say to each player. Nothing special, nothing Churchillian, but each player knew from the look in my eye and the strength of my handshake they could rely on me. I’d occasionally have a few words with Rushie, talking to him about the importance of closing down defenders, but we all knew what we had to do. Bob had us well prepared.

Then a few shouts would go up, triggering responses off each other. ‘Come on, lads, right from the off,’ somebody would yell. ‘Let’s go,’ resounded as the door opened. First out would be the captain, Phil Neal, then the goalie, Clem or Bruce, then me. I’d touch the ‘This Is Anfield’ sign, a practice so embedded in every Liverpool player’s routine that the sign became worn by eager fingers. Some touched it with one hand but I was always two-handed, believing more luck rubbed off on me. ‘Just as well you’ve got your long studs on, Dugs,’ Souness laughed when he joined, watching me stretching up to the sign. Another Liverpool custom was the proliferation of nicknames and Souness called me ‘Dogs’ as in the Dog’s Bollocks, but the way he said it, it sounded like ‘Dugs’. Terry Mac named me ‘Super’ after some extravagant headline, but as he had a lisp, this came out as ‘Thuper’.

I’ll never forget my home debut on 23 August 1977, pausing at the top of the stairs and seeing the ‘This Is Anfield’ sign lit by a single strip of lighting. Similarly enraptured was Tommy Craig, the Newcastle midfielder. Having played together all the way through Glasgow and Scotland schools, wee Tam and I were good friends.

‘This sign is supposed to frighten you,’ I whispered to Tam. ‘But it terrifies me!’ Not for long. ‘This Is Anfield’ always inspired me. Running out on the pitch, I felt six feet tall, lifted by the sign and the noise of the Kop, knowing the fans were on my side.

My warm-up ritual on the pitch was quickly established. I’d sprint down to the Kop end and drill a ball into the net before doing some stretching and ball-work, hitting four crosses from either side. I hated it if I missed that first shot. ‘I’m going to have a bad game,’ I’d tell myself if the ball went wide. The Kop would always let me know, nicely of course. They were always supportive. Before that home debut against Newcastle, Liverpool fans gave me a great reception and I’d not even kicked a ball. It helped that I then scored just after half-time, after Ray Kennedy gave me a pass so inviting it came with a compliments slip. Running in behind the Newcastle centre-half, John Bird, I guided the ball past the keeper, Steve Hardwick, with my left foot. My momentum swept me towards the Kop and I loved seeing and hearing that explosion of joy. Turning back, I swiftly found Ray to show my appreciation for the quality of the pass. The morning headlines were kind to me, one of them saying ‘Kenny’s From Heaven’, but we all knew Liverpool were a team. Everybody contributed. I took as much pleasure playing the pass to Steve Heighway that brought Terry Mac’s goal, making it 2–0 and sending the Kop wild.

Back in the dressing room, I noticed my new team-mates producing sleek leather bags. ‘What have you got there?’ I inquired suspiciously. They smiled. Out of those bags spilled shampoos, hairdryers, all manner of toiletries and after-shaves. Anfield’s dressing room was transformed into a fancy hair salon, fragrances filling the air. I couldn’t believe my eyes or nose, and it got worse when that king of fashion Graeme Souness strode in from Middlesbrough that January. The aura that surrounded Souey on the pitch was more than matched by his style off it. His moustache was a work of art, lovingly clipped and groomed. With the looks and confidence of a Scottish Tom Selleck, Souey walked in one day, wearing a full-length wolf’s skin coat, which stopped every conversation in the dressing room and probably for miles around.

‘What is that?!’ I asked as the other lads started howling like wolves at a full moon. Graeme calmly took off the coat and proudly showed us his initials GS stitched inside – not that anybody was likely to forget who this half-coat, half-animal belonged to. Graeme never wore the coat again in front of the boys, but he soon joined them in front of the mirror after matches, plugging in the hairdryer and styling away.

‘What have I done here?’ I thought to myself as they preened away like peacocks. ‘How can you be football players with hairdryers?’ I asked. ‘I’ve never seen football players coiffeur themselves before.’ Terry Mac laughed.

‘What did you do at Celtic?’ he asked.

‘We didn’t have any of this nonsense. We washed our hair with soap. Look at you with your shampoos and deodorants. Unbelievable.’

When Terry Mac and Souey got perms, the coiffeur sessions lasted even longer. Terry and Souey had these fork-like contraptions they’d stick in their hair, blowing it with their hairdryers.

If that was part of their routine, mine involved the blackest of moods if Liverpool failed to win. I’d be silent in the dressing room, even in the car on the way home, even the next day. Even if I had a couple of glasses of wine to remove the edge, I’d still feel bad, not wanting to see the papers, knowing the weekend was ruined. I trained all week to win and felt sick if we slipped up. When Liverpool lost away from Anfield, the trip back was murder. I’d sit there, staring disconsolately out the window, desperate to get back in the old routine – winning. Fortunately, the legendary Boot Room ensured we did.

4

OLD BOB AND THE BOOT ROOM

J
UST A CRAMPED
area, 10 foot by 10 foot off a corridor near the dressing rooms, the Boot Room made an unlikely nerve centre for Liverpool operations. Match boots hung from pegs and a carpenter’s bench provided space for working on studs. Adorning one wall was a newspaper photograph of Joe Fagan talking to Ronnie Moran in the Boot Room. A calendar reminded everybody what year it was.

Running along the left-hand wall was metal shelving, leaving room at the end for a chair, traditionally occupied by Old Tom Saunders, who liked that seat because he could hide his whisky behind one of the uprights in the shelving if somebody walked in. For the life of me, I don’t know why Tom feared discovery. Everybody knew what went on in the Boot Room. Up against the right wall stood two wooden cupboards, housing ledgers and a few bottles of whisky. A crate of Guinness Export stood in one corner, a present from friends at the brewers, who received tickets in return. After matches, Bugsy and Joe would sit on metal skips, holding court. When visiting managers and coaches were invited in for a drink, they usually accepted gratefully, aware of the honour. They’d perch on a skip, sipping whisky from an old glass, totally unaware they had walked into an ambush. Joe, Ronnie and Tom should have worn masks they staged so many hold-ups in the Boot Room. Information was their target and it was extracted with great subtlety. Unassuming and respectful people, never gloating over a victory, Liverpool’s coaching staff were masters at making guests relax.

‘That’s us got a job for another week,’ Ronnie said if Liverpool won.

‘Oh no, it’s not,’ Joe piped up. ‘We’ve got a game on Tuesday. Christ, we could be under pressure Tuesday.’ The visiting manager felt he was being taken into their confidence when he was actually being led very skilfully into a trap. Gradually, waiting until his guard was down, Ronnie, Joe and Old Tom would quietly grill him.

‘You’re building a good team there. Got any good kids coming through?’ Joe asked. Responding to such flattery, the visiting manager would talk about some real promising teenager on the books of his club. Within days, Liverpool scouts would be checking him out. They were so crafty. All the time in that Boot Room, they were weighing people up, finding out tiny details about what made their team tick, building up a mental dossier on opponents’ strengths and weaknesses. Most managers fell for it. Brian Clough didn’t. He visited just a couple of times, leading me to suspect Cloughie knew what the Boot Room boys were up to.

Shanks set up the Boot Room and it proved to be a breeding ground for future managers – Bob, Joe and Roy Evans. It was the heart and soul of Liverpool’s footballing operation, a centre for research and strategy.

‘Many a battle has been won in here,’ Bugsy kept telling us players. The Boot Room was mainly the coaches’ domain, and players were discouraged from entering. Sometimes I’d knock on the door, checking on timing for training, but on the whole I avoided the place. The Boot Room’s history intimidated me. I never went in unless they shouted down the corridor for me.

‘It’s the officers’ mess,’ Liverpool’s chief executive, Peter Robinson, remarked to me one day.

‘Peter,’ I replied, ‘they are generals, not officers.’ And they were, brilliant generals with Bob a field marshal, an amazing man, unpretentious and shrewd.

‘Bob’s so self-effacing if he wrote an autobiography, he’d only mention himself twice,’ Hansen laughed one day, and Al was right. When Shanks left in 1974, Bob didn’t want to become Liverpool manager. He enjoyed being part of the coaching staff, loving his work preparing the team and spending his day in the Boot Room. When he did take the job, everybody fell in love with him. People watched Bob on the television and thought, ‘He’s a nice old man.’ With his knitted polo shirt and tie, Bob was like everyone’s favourite granddad. You knew if you went over to his house, he’d dish out tea, biscuits and good advice. Everybody could relate to this truly modest man, a simple straightforward guy possessing all the right virtues for success in life. For all his brief doubts, Bob took to management easily and was never shy in solving a problem. When Shanks kept turning up at Melwood, unable to tear himself away, the boys told me how cleverly Bob handled a sensitive situation. Bob loved Shanks but this couldn’t go on.

‘Look, Bill, I can’t do my job because you’re still here. The boys still think you’re the Boss,’ Bob said. ‘You’re confusing them.’ Bob was straight with Shanks, who took the hint. The best managers are decisive and Bob Paisley was certainly that. When he dropped a player, Bob did it unhesitatingly but kindly, recalling what happened to him in the 1950 FA Cup final.

‘I scored the winner in the semi against Everton but George Kay dropped me for the final,’ Bob told us one day. ‘Laurie Hughes played and the decision was right.’ Bob never complained.

That final was five years after the war and people still looked up to their superiors, never questioning decisions, but it must have hurt Bob. A caring man, Bob had a heavy heart when he left somebody out. Man-management was a skill of his demanding trade that came effortlessly to Bob Paisley. He’d have a shout, and the outburst carried more impact because of its rarity. On 26 December 1981, we fell to twelfth in the League after losing 3–1 to Manchester City at Anfield, and we were confronted by a seething Bob in the dressing room afterwards.